


Half-Life

by StopTalkingAtMe



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Epistolary, Forgiveness, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Human Mary Reid AU, Mary survives au, References to the canonical death of a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 14:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20448524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StopTalkingAtMe/pseuds/StopTalkingAtMe
Summary: To whom it may concern,It may be of interest to note that the Pembroke Hospital in Whitechapel has recently employed a new member of staff to work the night shift. He goes by the name Dr Jonathan Reid. I have reason to believe this information may be of particular interest to you,A friend





	Half-Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladylapislazuli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladylapislazuli/gifts).

Dearest Jonathan,

I’m starting to believe I have finally gone and lost my mind.

Perhaps it’s not so surprising. There is a limit to how much loss one person can suffer without collapsing under the strain. First my husband was taken from me, and then my little one, and to think I was so afraid I wouldn’t be able to find the words to tell Henry about his father. It all seems a black sort of joke now, the bitterest kind of humour.

No doubt if you were here you’d say something dreadfully pompous about how our thoughts at a time of anguish cannot be helped, that grief is not always rational or pretty, and it would make me want to slap you. 

But you’re not here. You left me to deal with it alone, and I know it’s not your fault: that there’s a war on, and that you were doing your duty, and ‘_ dulce et decorum est’ _, and all those other trite little aphorisms, but you still aren’t here.

You left me to grieve alone. Not only for Dylan and Henry, but for Mother, too. You wouldn’t recognise her these days. I’m not sure I do, and I have been there for every moment of her decline. It happened so quickly, and it’s all the worse for how I still see glimpses of the wonderful, bright, witty woman she used to be. Then there are the times when she thinks Henry is still alive, and – _ Oh! What a delight it is to have a child about the house again! _– and my God, I hate her so much in those moments.

What a spiteful little witch I can be when I put my mind to it.

Do you know what I thought when I heard you were coming home on compassionate leave? 'Oh, thank goodness, Jonathan will make everything all right again.'

What a fool I was.

Sometimes I wonder if this family is cursed. Nothing has gone right since Father left us. Mother tells me he visits her from time to time, and God help me, after everything I have seen, I find myself wondering if she isn’t telling the truth?

I saw you, Johnny. I know I did. I was neither dreaming nor hallucinating that night, despite my best efforts to convince myself otherwise.

I’d almost given up finding you. I’d spent so long combing London in search of news, and then there you were at the side of that awful mass grave, like a plague pit out of the Dark Ages, with the bodies wrapped in stained shrouds, all tumbled in on one another and left to rot. Strange that it should be there of all places that God chose to answer my prayers and deliver you back to me. I prayed for my husband and son too, but those prayers were never answered. So why this one, Johnny? Why you?

But I already know the answer. This was no act of God, any more than it was the flu that killed you. It was not God but something else that sent you stumbling towards me on that dark pier, your shirt-front stiff with dried blood.

I called your name and you didn’t respond, and I thought you were in shock. The tears I was weeping as you fell into my arms were tears of joy, because at least here was one loss I was to be spared.

You were cold, chill to the touch, and you reeked. God, that stench. I shall never forget it, blood and dirt and death. The reek of the pit you must have crawled your way out of. You clung to me so tightly that it hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt.

You moved your face against my neck, and I thought of Henry when he was born, and I was exhausted and proud, and wishing Dylan were there to see his son. He lay on my chest, his little hand clamping around my finger tight as a vice, his dark hair brushing feather-soft against my lips when I kissed the top of his head. The way he’d move, almost bobbing his head in search of milk, driven by instinct and hunger. You moved in the same way, Jonathan, your cold breath against my skin, your hands tightening into claws in the moment before you bit me.

It hurt. It hurt so much.

Do you remember that first summer after you went to school (leaving me behind), and we went to stay at the house in Surrey? Clarence spent the holidays with us, and you were so grown-up and full of yourself, you didn’t have time for a little sister. You dared me to climb the tree at the bottom of the garden because you wanted to hunt for birds’ eggs with Clarence and didn’t want me tagging along. I got stuck because you weren’t there to help me down and I fell and broke my arm.

This was the same sort of hurt. It wasn’t even the physical pain, although that was agony – it was because it was you, my dearest brother, who had hurt me.

This time you meant to kill me. I daresay you might even have succeeded if it weren’t for those vigilantes. I remember so clearly the moment when you let me go with a look of dawning horror in your eyes, the frantic terror of a wounded animal, and then a bullet struck you in the shoulder and you fled. You ran, Johnny. You saw what you had done and you abandoned me. Did you ever bother to come back to find out what had become of me?

I have barely been able to sleep since that night. I am too afraid to, afraid that you will visit me in my nightmares. And why not? Dylan and Henry both have. I’m terrified that I will wake to find you crouched upon me like a leech, my loving brother, as monstrous as you were on that pier, come to kill me.

Why didn’t you do it, Johnny? Did you recover enough of your wits in time? How typical of you, brother. No doubt you thought you were doing the right thing, as always. You cannot know how desperately I wish you had finished the job you started, that for once – just once – you had taken me with you.

Your loving sister,

Mary.

* * *

To whom it may concern,

It may be of interest to note that the Pembroke Hospital in Whitechapel has recently employed a new member of staff to work the night shift. He goes by the name Dr Jonathan Reid. I have reason to believe this information may be of particular interest to you,

A friend

* * *

Mary might have thought herself mad if it weren’t for that note.

It had been over a week since she thought she saw her brother, and her certainty had faded as the wound in her neck healed. By now she had all but convinced herself that what she’d seen by that mass grave in Southwark had been the product of imagination and grief, the wound the result of a bullet grazing her skin.

Not so very hard really, when she had so much to keep her occupied. There had been a brief scare when they thought Avery might have the Spanish flu. It had turned out to be a bad cold, but to be on the safe side, and despite his protests, she’d taken over as many of his duties as she could manage, leaving herself too exhausted to think about Jonathan.

Almost.

Her brother was dead. In daylight she knew that for certain, but it was winter and the days were short.

From time to time she thought she saw him, lurking at the edge of a street light when she got up to pull the curtains closed or following her down the street in the darkening twilight. And he wasn’t the only thing that haunted her. When she slept, she dreamed of clawing through a lake of blood-soaked mud and bodies in search of her husband. But the body she pulled out of the mud was not Dylan’s, but Henry’s, limp and blue with cold. She clasped his lifeless little body to her chest and rocked him until he wrapped his arms around her neck and bared his sharp teeth.

The wound on her neck had healed to a silvery scar which was only visible in a certain light, but the scar tissue must have wormed its way deep into her flesh because it still twinged from time to time. Such as when she held her head in a particular way. Or when she read the note that claimed Jonathan was still alive.

It had to be a sick joke, or at best a mistake. For a long time she was sorely tempted to simply drop it into the fire and pretend she’d never seen it. Anonymous letters were almost always the produce of spite and mischief. She got to the point of crumpling it up and tossing it at the fire, but snatched it from the flames at the last moment and smoothed it out, wondering.

Whitechapel. It was madness. The worst kind of false hope.

And yet it would be just like him.

* * *

It was twilight by the time she reached the Pembroke Hospital, a damp mist rising up from the streets in the eerie half-light. She remembered the way from when she first came looking for him, back when she wasn’t quite able to admit to herself that she was searching, not for a patient, but for a corpse. Now she wasn’t certain what she was searching for.

The Pembroke was in chaos, almost overwhelmed by the flu, but battling on regardless. A shanty town of makeshift tents and rickety beds spilled out onto the streets, the Victorian red brick building rising up like a stalwart sentinel from an age of science and progress.

No one had any time for her. She was clearly not in need of any medical assistance, and aside from a few distracted glances her way, the nurses made a point of ignoring her, having more important matters to claim their attention than a trembling woman in a black coat. She meant to ask them about Jonathan and whether it was true, but they were all far too busy and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to find the words anyway.

She found herself something to do, reading to one of the patients, a gaunt sallow-faced woman with stringy hair. Her voice trembled a little at first, as she recalled reading to Henry from whatever she had to hand, whether it was a novel, or The Times, or a magazine, and how he’d listen with delight no matter the subject matter and crumple the pages in a sticky fist.

It was Jonathan’s voice she heard first, sounding both weary and amused, and she stumbled over the words as she lifted her gaze to the doorway. The speaker had Jonathan’s height and his dark hair, but he was facing away from the doorway so she couldn’t see his face. He seemed to be discussing a patient’s case with another doctor, and he was calm and composed, a world away from the bestial creature she’d seen in Southwark.

Her hands tightened on the book, her knuckles whitening. _ It isn’t him, _ she told herself. _ It can’t be him. _ And then he turned, shaking his head in amusement at something the other man had said, and it _ was _him.

She exhaled sharply, the air escaping from her in a rush, and set her hand against her chest, because she couldn’t seem to breathe. The sound of her blood rose in her ears, drowning out the noise of the hospital. She had to get out.

A hand touched hers, the woman she’d been reading to. "Are you all right, duck?"

Her mouth tightened into an unconvincing smile. "I’m fine, thank you. I just… I’m terribly sorry, but I forgot there was something I had to do." She stood up hurriedly, knocking against the scrounged chair in her panic. It clattered down, drawing eyes her way.

She had to force herself to look at the doorway and found him staring at her, his expression stricken. For a moment she was as frozen as he was, until from somewhere she managed to gather enough composure to speak.

"Hello, Jonathan," she managed, her voice high and clear.

The other doctor glanced between them, looking puzzled when Jonathan didn’t respond. "I say, do you know each other?"

"I thought so," Mary said, "but evidently, I was mistaken. Excuse me," She gathered up her coat, turned on her heel and left, her dignified exit only someone bruised by how she nearly lost her way in the maze of corridors before finding her way out into the cool night air.

It had started to rain, and she lifted her head towards the sky, unshed tears blurring the street lamps into a greasy smear of orange light. She knew that he was going to follow her, and she felt a bitter stab of pleasure at that, that for once it was Jonathan Reid stumbling after her, rather than the other way round.

"Mary, wait!"

She walked faster, pretending not to have heard him.

And then, impossibly, he stood in front of her, holding her upper arms, not quite restraining her. Startled, she stumbled. "How did you–"

"What on earth are you doing here, Mary?" He still looked stricken. 

She jerked away, pulled out the anonymous letter from the inside pocket of her coat and threw it at him. She meant for it to fall on the ground, to force him to stoop to pick it up off the wet pavement, but instead he snatched it out of the air, the movement of his arm too fast for her to follow. He unfolded the letter, ran his gaze over the contents.

"’To whom it may concern’," he repeated grimly.

"They must have the wrong address," she said. "I can’t see why anyone would think this information of interest to me in the slightest."

"Mary..."

"Keep it. _ Burn _ it." She pushed past him, expecting him to stop her again, but he only stepped aside to allow her to pass. "I ought to have done that myself, but you know how things are, Jonathan. Curiosity killed the cat." He fell into step with her, matching her rapid pace with ease, and she hated him for it.

"Mary, please, at least give me the chance to explain."

"There’s nothing you could possibly say to make this all right."

"I know. I’m sorry."

They reached the bridge across the river. He showed no sign of giving up and turning back, and she stopped, gritting her teeth. "Do you intend to follow me all the way home?"

"If necessary."

"I could scream for help," she said, turning on him. "Tell whoever comes that you mean me harm."

He stayed silent, lips tightening.

"But perhaps that's not so far from the truth. Do you, Jonathan?" she insisted, taking a step closer despite the fear tightening her throat. "Do you mean me harm?"

"I could never hurt you, Mary," he told her, and never mind that it wasn't a lie several times over. Still she stared up at him, almost tempted to believe him. He looked paler than she remembered, his eyes sunken. The colour had been sapped from his face, and not just because of the darkness. His eyes were sunken and heavily shadowed, and there was a haunted look about his face, but that was all too common these days.

Across the river, men shouted, the cries underscored by what sounded like the scream of a fox. Jonathan lifted his head, eyes narrowing. "Come back to the Pembroke," he told her, distractedly, reaching out to grasp her arm. "It isn’t safe on the streets and we have a great deal to talk about."

She pulled her arm out of reach. "And if all I have to say is said in anger?"

He didn’t quite smile, but it was there, the ghost of it at the corners of his lips. "Then perhaps I deserve it."

"You always did have to be right about everything." 

Finally, she relented and followed him off the streets and back into the hospital. Despite her misgivings, it was a relief to be inside and amongst people again, despite the overwhelming smell of sick beds and carbolic soap. There was something oppressive about the darkness and the drizzling rain, the distant shouts that brought back memories of Southwark, the desolation there and the reek of death. Memories of being hunted.

In the lobby, they ran into the doctor she’d seen him with earlier. He straightened up from the notes he was examining to regard her with polite curiosity as Jonathan introduced her.

"Mary, this is Edgar Swansea, the administrator of the Pembroke. Edgar, may I introduce you to my sister, Mary."

"Of course," Edgar said, shaking her hand. "I ought to have seen the family resemblance at once. A pleasure, dear lady. Jonathan has told me a great deal about you." He placed his other hand over hers. "I’m dreadfully sorry for your loss."

"I’d thought Jonathan dead too," she said, her voice brittle. "A miracle that I should find him here in Whitechapel. So very far from home."

He made a faint noise of discomfort deep in his throat and dropped his hands from hers. Jonathan looked away. How very English they all were, Mary thought, and almost wanted to laugh. Discomfited, Edgar rocked on his heels, and made the decision to ignore her comment. "Jonathan’s been a great boon to this hospital in recent days," he said, glancing up as a woman dressed in a hospital gown wandered through the lobby, muttering to herself. "I’m not sure we could have managed without him."

Mary followed the woman with her gaze, caught the word ‘blood’ with a shiver of unease. "Is she all right?"

"Nothing to worry about," Edgar said cheerily. "That’s just Miss Howcroft." He glanced at Jonathan, smiling wryly. "Our resident vampire."

* * *

"Miss Howcroft suffers from Cotard’s Syndrome," Jonathan said as he ushered her into his room. "It’s a form of mental illness. The patient believes–"

"I know what Cotard’s Syndrome is," she snapped, although she didn’t. Jonathan offered her tea and she accepted, wandering the room while he made it, casting her eye over the neatly made bed and the open window, before taking a seat as Jonathan brought the tea tray to the table.

"Have you told Mother that I’m here?"

"She wouldn’t remember if I had," she said bitterly, "But no, I haven’t told her. I thought it had to be a cruel joke. You’re supposed to be dead, Jonathan."

"The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated," he said, setting the tea down, trying for a smile. He looked exhausted. Despite the speed of his reactions earlier, when he’d snatched the letter out of the air, he seemed slower now, with a weight to his movements, as though his bones were filled with lead. He poured the tea, but only for her.

"Aren’t you having any?"

He shook his head. "Is Mother truly so unwell?"

She spooned sugar into her tea, stirred, added more sugar until the thought of drinking it turned her stomach. An old childhood habit. The clinking of the tea spoon against the side of the cup drew his attention, and a muscle tightened irritably in his cheek. _ Good, _ she thought. _ Good. _

"Grief and heartache will do that to a woman," she said, and his eyes darkened. He looked away. She brought the cup to her lips and sipped, her face twisting. Too sweet. Of course.

The tears were rising. She closed her eyes, tried to keep them back and failed. The teacup rattled against the saucer. "How could you?" she said, her voice soft. "You were alive, all this time."

"It’s… hard to explain."

"And in Whitechapel, of all the godforsaken places. You never once saw fit to inform us you were alive? A letter, Johnny. A telephone call. A telegram."

He started to his feet, and her terror spiked with a flash of embracing arms and sharp teeth in the shadows. Without meaning to she shrank back in her seat. Jonathan, not quite the bloated dead thing from her nightmares, but all the more terrifying for his groomed appearance, the impeccable quality of his clothes. She couldn't help her fear, any more than he could help the look of dismay that crossed his face in the instant before he managed to school his expression into a mask of mild concern.

"What are you?" she whispered.

"Are you certain you want me to answer that?" There was a note of danger in his voice, and she couldn’t quite determine whether he meant it as a threat or not. She stared at him, not quite trusting herself to speak. Jonathan seemed about to say something, but thought better of it and sank down into the chair instead. He folded his hands in a gesture of prayer, and pressed his knuckles to his lips. "I ought to have come home," he said. "I wanted to, but the situation… it has been difficult."

"Difficult?"

"With the epidemic and other matters."

Mary swallowed. "I saw you, Johnny. In Southwark."

He stayed still for a moment. Only his eyes moved, flitting up to meet hers. Mary felt a strange shivery sensation at his regard. This, she thought, was how a rabbit must feel when it came to the attention of the fox. "I wasn’t certain if you'd remember," he said finally.

Feeling numb, disconnected from her body, she hooked her fingers into the high neckline of her dress and pulled it down to expose the scar. He rose to his feet in a smooth movement, and she closed her eyes, too afraid to look at him as he came closer. He moved so silently she didn’t realise how close he was until his fingers brushed her throat.

"I’m so sorry, Mary."

"What are you?"

"You’ll think me mad," he said, the sadness in his voice mingling with weary amusement. "I’ve thought so myself."

"Just tell me, Jonathan. The truth, for once. You owe me that, at least."

He stared at her, nodded slowly, and Mary held her breath, because now that it came to it, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to know at all. "Very well," he said. "I’m a vampire."

It was absurd, hearing it said out loud. Especially coming from him, the scientist, the rationalist, and with that rich note of self-deprecation in his voice.

"Of course you are," she said and laughed. "I mean, of course! It makes so much sense."

He was laughing too. "It’s ridiculous, I know. Like something out of a Gothic novel. I haven’t quite come to terms with it myself."

"Are there others like you?" But of course there had to be. No one spontaneously became a vampire.

"I have met several others. One in particular. I think you’d like her very much."

"Her?" She glanced at him, noticed the way his expression had softened._ So that’s it. _ "I see. She was the one who changed you, I take it."

"No, not at all. We are merely friends, that’s all. I have yet to learn the identity of my Maker. A number of recent acquaintances have been most helpful." He hesitated, then continued, cautiously. "Perhaps you can understand now, why, under the circumstances, I thought it best to stay away."

It was the tone of his voice that did it. So calm, so rational, appealing to her common sense, to her better nature. Jonathan, the rationalist, the pragmatise, always so composed and sure of himself and so confident that _his_ way was the best, expecting her to simply fall into step behind him, the ever-obedient, worshipful little sister. Well, damn him. _Assuming, of course,_ a quiet little voice whispered, _that he isn't already damned._

She started to her feet. "I’m sure you thought so," she said, and she was rather proud of how calm her voice was at first, considering how hard her heart was hammering against her ribs. "But did you ever ask yourself what Mother and I might have thought of that?"

He stayed silent, frowning.

Mary nodded. "No, I didn’t think so. Well, I shall tell you, Jonathan. It was cowardly. Cowardly and cruel, letting us go on thinking you were dead–"

"Mary..."

"–And it’s funny, because of all the things I might have thought you, a coward was the last thing on the list. How dare you make that decision on our behalf? How could you do that to me, to Mother, swanning about your bloody hospital, making friends and flirting with lady vampires–"

"I’ve hardly been flirting."

"–While Mother and I _ grieved _." Her face contorted, hot tears flooding her eyes again. Her throat ached, and then he had pulled her close, enveloping her in his strange unnatural coolness. His hand pressed against her back, between her shoulder blades. She held herself stiff, every muscle taut.

"You’re right," he murmured, his voice soothing. As though she was a child. "You’re right, I’m sorry."

Her fear dissolved. She bunched her hands into fists, thumped them against his chest until he released her. "You don’t know what it’s like," she spat. "You have no idea. To be forced to stay behind, to watch and weep and feel so helpless while everything I love is taken from me."

"I’ll come home," he said, and she hated him all the more, because despite her hurt and her fury, his voice was soft and gentle and it was working, damn him, it was working. "If it’s what you want, I’ll come home." He paused, then said, his voice quiet and desperately said, "I thought I had killed you."

She drew a ragged breath. She’d heard him use that tone of voice before. He’d sounded just the same when she’d broken her arm, that time when they were children. The same desperate guilt. She’d forgiven him then too. She squeezed her eyes shut, a rising wave of love piercing her fury. She never had been able to stop herself from forgiving him, no matter how angry with him she was. "Don’t be silly. As if you ever would," she said, turning away to wipe her eyes.

"I have missed you, Mary. And I am truly sorry. After what happened I swore I’d never take another human life."

"And have you?" she asked. He gave her a look, the long-suffering look of the older brother, and did not answer. Something else occurred to her, an insidiously creeping thought that she couldn't shake once it had taken root. "What of creating new vampires? Have you considered it? Do you even know how?"

He shook his head roughly. "I would not wish this on anybody, Mary. I mean to find a cure for this disease, not condemn more souls to a half-life of shadows and blood."

"If you’d come home only a few months earlier," she said numbly, "could you have saved my son’s life?"

Jonathan stared at her, his expression impassive. "He would have been trapped in the body of a child for eternity," he said after far too long a pause.

She caught hold of his hands, his strangely cool fingers. "All I wanted," she said, her voice low and fraught, "was to hold him in my arms one last time. Would you have done it, Johnny? For me?"

He sighed and squeezed her hands. "You are my sister, Mary. I could never have denied you anything."

She studied him for a moment, a sensation in her chest like a hand squeezing about her heart. Her throat still ached but her eyes were strangely dry. She dropped his hands, turned away. "You should get back to work."

"I shall see you home first. Edgar will understand."

She nodded, and let him help her slip her coat on. "Will you stay? I’m sure Mother would be delighted to see you again."

He hesitated. "For a while, perhaps." Then he smiled, darkly amused. "You know, you might have to invite me in."

"Perhaps I’ll make you wait outside," she said. "Until you apologise properly."

"It might be wiser. I doubt it’s a good idea to invite the dead into your house."

Mary felt the first stirrings of fear returning. It was all too easy to forget, when she was looking directly at him and he wasn’t just a lurking shadow at the corner of her eye, that he was no longer just her brother, but a monster. She shook them away. And when Jonathan offered his arm to her and she took it, she thought, as he led her down the stairs, that no matter what excuses he made she would make certain he never once left her behind again.


End file.
